‘Well, of course you’ll hate him if you think you’re going to hate him,’ he says disdainfully. ‘But actually this time I think the two of you would get on. And he works in PR, so you’d have something in common.’
‘Si, how many times do I have to tell you that PR and advertising have practically nothing in common.’
‘He’s creative. You’re creative. He has black shoes. You have black everything. You’re bound to get on.’
‘And what’s his relationship history?’
Si looks at me with horror. ‘Like I know?’
‘But didn’t you ask? You must have asked. That’s always your first question.’
‘Darling, Cath. He’s a gay man with twinkling blue eyes and a body to die for. I’ll have to assume he’s been shagging for Britain, and is now tired of it and looking for security.’
‘So how come you didn’t ask?’
‘Because he would have lied. They always do.’
Si takes my arm, and we walk down the other side of the hill, our stride perfectly in tune, Mouse and Dylan happily tearing around the field, chasing one another.
We walk in silence for a while, then Si asks, ‘If you could meet anyone walking round this field right now, who would it be?’
‘Dead or alive?’
‘Alive, sweets. This has to be a fantasy that has potential. Otherwise what’s the point.’
‘Okay. Someone we know, or someone we don’t?’
Si lets out a long sigh. ‘For God’s sake, Cath. Just get on with the game.’
‘Okay, okay, sorry.’ We trudge along while I try to think of someone, but, as each name flicks into my head, I mentally cross them off, knowing that they’re not the person I’d really like to meet, but not quite sure who is.
And eventually I’m left with only one name.
‘Portia.’
Si looks at me with horror. ‘God, Cath. You’re so sad. I thought you’d say Brad Pitt. At the very least I would have accepted Tom Cruise, but Portia? You really are obsessed, aren’t you?’
Actually I’m not obsessed. In fact, apart from our weekly addiction to her series, made all the stronger now we know the truth, I’ve hardly thought about her since I left that message on her machine.
I was pissed off that she didn’t call back. Pissed off that she’d obviously rejected us, wanted nothing more to do with us, but other than that I really didn’t mind, it was just that there were so many unanswered questions. I suppose what I’m trying to say is that there never seemed to be closure with Portia.
I remember Lucy once saying that the relationships she carried with her, the ones that hadn’t seemed to die, no matter how far in the past they were, were always the ones that didn’t actually have an end. They were the ones that were cut short before their life span was up. The relationships where one person decided they’d had enough – invariably the men – and the other person never had a chance to say their piece, to explain how they felt, to be acknowledged at all. Lucy was using this analogy to talk about relationships she’d had before Josh, men she’d been out with, lived with, loved; but I see no reason why you can’t extend this analogy to friendship, because what is that type of close female friendship if not a relationship? Without the sex, of course.
And relationship does sum it up far better than friendship: I remember feeling, at times, that Portia and I were locked into such an incredibly intense relationship, that. it wasn’t unusual for us to joke that we felt like lovers, except we didn’t want to sleep together.
‘If I could find a man like you,’ she’d say, ‘I’d marry him tomorrow.’ And I’d say the same thing back to her.
There were occasions when I felt quite simply overwhelmed with love for Portia. She was like the sister I never had. The best friend, mother, father, brother, the everything, and I do not believe that you can simply walk away from friendships like that. You cannot simply drift apart and get on with your lives, never giving one another a second thought.
Which was perhaps what upset me, pissed me off most, about Portia not returning the phone call. If I had come home to find a message on my machine from Portia, I would have called her back. Immediately. I might have felt sick with nerves while doing so, but I would have done it. But then who knows, she may have changed beyond recognition. I might be remembering someone who doesn’t exist any more, or perhaps in name alone.
‘I think you might have been slightly in love with Portia,’ Lucy said once, while I jumped in shock and dismay. And guilt, because this was something I already knew.
‘I don’t mean you wanted to have sex with her,’ Lucy continued, seeing my reaction. ‘I just mean you felt an incredibly strong emotional attachment. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, loving someone like that. And you mustn’t deny it to yourself, negate the memories. The nature of your friendship with her was incredibly special and pure, and you must remember that.’
So when Si makes the comment about being obsessed with Portia, I shrug regretfully and explain lightly, ‘Unfinished business, Si. I’d just like to see her again.’
‘You know that if she does happen to call you’d be duty bound to tell her about the bookshop? In fact I think you should call and leave another message on her machine, just to make sure she includes it in the series. She’d have to rework her storylines to give you a dusty little bookshop called something like Fully Booked.’
‘And Steen would presumably be called in to do the decorating. Chintz armchairs and gingham cushions.’
Si laughs. ‘Anyway. My turn. Now who, other than Will, would I most want to bump into right here, right now. Hmm. Let me think. Rupert Everett or John Travolta? Eeny Meeny Miny Mo…’
‘No, Max,’ Lucy says. ‘Go and wash your hands before touching anything.’ She turns back to the fridge, and Max walks over to me with a grin, which I take to be a good sign.
‘Hello, Max. Have you been at school today?’
Max doesn’t say anything, revolting Damien devilspawn that he is, but, still grinning, he reaches out two chocolatey hands and grabs my cream cardigan, before running out of the room chuckling to himself, leaving me open-mouthed with shock. Not because I care about the cream cardigan, but because that child is a monster.
‘He is a monster,’ I shriek, proffering my cardigan to Lucy, who groans and starts to clean it with an old dishcloth while screaming for Ingrid at the top of her voice.
A shadow falls in the hallway and I smile faintly, wondering how on earth an au pair girl can manage to look so immaculately groomed, my immediate second thought being how on earth Lucy can trust Josh with Ingrid in the house, because isn’t that always the classic scenario? Wife comes back to find husband in bed with young, nubile Scandinavian tottie?
Ingrid runs her fingers lazily through her hair and steps gingerly into the kitchen, which is when I notice that in between her blood-red toes are wads of cotton wool protecting her newly applied nail polish. So that’s what they do all day.
‘Were you calling me?’ Ingrid asks, which is quite an extraordinary question, given that Lucy has been shrieking her name for at least three minutes.
‘Ingrid. Yes. Look, would you mind keeping Max with you? Playing a game with him? Staying in the playroom? Something? Anything?’
Ingrid looks perplexed. ‘But I have just finished my nail polishing. I cannot play any games at the moment.’
Lucy stares, dumbstruck, at Ingrid’s feet. ‘Well, I’m not actually saying you have to play cops and robbers,’ she says finally, patience wearing thin, which is amazing, really, because Lucy has more patience than anyone I know. ‘What about a quiet game?’
Ingrid can see that she’s not going to win this one, so she shrugs and walks off down the corridor.